A Beautiful Impact
by yassandra
Summary: "Why are you here?" "Because you need me." Pythagoras' life is long and eventful; filled with both joy and loss. Through it all one friend stands at his side, constant and reassuring, but is everything as it seems? Or is something else going on that the mathematician doesn't want to acknowledge?


A/N Written for Round 7 of the Small Fandom Big Bang, and also for Hurt/Comfort Bingo for the 'Disappearing' prompt.

WARNING: Contains Major Character Death

* * *

 _ **A Beautiful Impact**_

" _Some people arrive and make such a beautiful impact on your life, you can barely remember what life was like without them."_

 _(Anna Taylor)_

* * *

"Why are you here?"

"Don't you want me to be?"

Pythagoras can hear the amusement in his friend's voice without ever looking up from his work.

"I _was_ trying to work out this equation," he complains. "Until you decided to disturb me, that is."

He is peevish and taking it out on Jason but the numbers just won't work out the way he wants them to and his friend is an easy target for his frustration.

"Are the triangles giving you trouble?" Jason's tone bubbles with laughter which annoys Pythagoras all the more.

"Indeed… and being disturbed is not helping," Pythagoras grumbles, still not looking up.

He feels a pair of strong hands beginning to massage his shoulders and neck.

"What?" he begins.

"Just relax," Jason murmurs. "You're so tense. Just relax and it will come to you."

"Jason, I don't see how this will help," Pythagoras protests.

"You won't be able to think clearly while you're so tense," Jason argues gently. "And that will just make you more and more frustrated… which will stop you thinking clearly even more. It's a vicious circle. So just for a few moments, let yourself relax and breathe deeply."

"This is a waste of time," Pythagoras grumbles. "I need to get on."

"Just shut up and try it," Jason says. "What have you got to lose?"

Pythagoras can almost hear his friend's grin, even though he still hasn't turned to look at Jason. He opens his mouth to argue but what actually comes out is a deeply contented moan as a knot that he wasn't even aware of is eased away.

"Tell me that doesn't feel better," Jason says softly, bending close to Pythagoras' ear.

Part of Pythagoras would like to argue (on principle mainly) but the rest of him has decided that this is one of the nicest things he's ever felt and that he should just go along with it as long as Jason keeps doing whatever it is he's doing with his hands. It feels positively sinful to enjoy something so much and for a moment Pythagoras wonders just where Jason learned to do this (and to muse that it somehow seems unfair that his friend is _this_ talented with his hands as well as being blessed with superhuman abilities and beauty that can only come from Aphrodite herself) before his brain shuts down entirely and he practically purrs.

He doesn't remember the last time he felt so completely relaxed and at ease (sometime before Minos died certainly). By the time Jason stops, he's completely loose; all the stiff tension in his shoulders and neck (that he really hadn't known was there) disappearing. His mind wanders freely, lazily, and he doesn't really notice when his friend steps away, chuckling quietly to himself.

When the idea hits all other thoughts fade into the background. It is so breathtakingly simple that he wonders how he never thought of it before. He grabs at his parchments and draws a hasty triangle, one corner forming two sides of a square; a perfect right angle. He measures the shorter two sides on the triangle carefully and writes the numbers down. He multiplies each figure by itself and then adds the two answers together. Finally, he works out the square root of the total. He measures the long side of the triangle. The numbers match. He tries it again with another hastily drawn right angled triangle. It works a second time too.

Pythagoras could crow with delight. This is important and he knows it. How to express it simply though; how to express it that others might understand. The square of the hypotenuse is equal to the sum of the square of the other two sides. If he calls the hypotenuse ' _c'_ and the other two sides _'a'_ and _'b'_ then the equation becomes _a2 + b2 = c2_.

He tests his equation again and again and again. It works perfectly every time. As he works, he can feel Jason watching him intently; can feel his friend's smile from across the room. In the early days of their friendship, he would often look up from the equation he was working on or the triangle he was studying to find Jason watching him speculatively, his eyes strangely knowing and intent (as though he knew Pythagoras would one day discover something important mathematically) – although he has shown no other interest in Pythagoras' work and teased him for his love of numbers and triangles every bit as much as Hercules does.

Now, as Pythagoras works, his mind moving so fast his hands almost can't keep up with writing his ideas down, Jason's words in those first couple of days of their friendship about Pythagoras' destiny come back to him.

 _"Pythagoras… your theories and your triangles are destined to bore millions of children throughout history. That's your fate, this is mine."_

At the time he hadn't thought much about what Jason was saying, too intent on trying to save his new friend from the fate that should have been his; from sacrificing himself to the Minotaur for Pythagoras' sake. Now though, he wonders; wonders what Jason meant; wonders how he was so certain that Pythagoras has such an amazing destiny ahead of him; wonders about so many things about his friend that he's ignored or pushed to one side in the heat of the moment when there was no real time to sit and think.

He raises his head to talk to Jason, determined to get some answers to the questions he has, only to find that Jason has slipped away unnoticed taking his secrets with him.

* * *

"Where's my bed gone?"

The question startles Pythagoras as he slices and dices ingredients for yet another type of tonic (he already has whole shelves full of tonics and ointments, but he has to keep busy when he's upset or anxious and this is as good a way as any).

He has been working at the table on the balcony; herbs strewn before him, a scroll unrolled at his side and the heavy grindstone weighing down one side of the table with the mortar as a counterbalance on the other side.

Jason is perched on the wooden edge of the balcony. Pythagoras frowns, surprised to see him there; he hadn't heard his friend come in (and knows that he shouldn't really be here right now anyway). He wonders if he should worry about Jason falling backwards into the street below but trusts in his friend's remarkable sense of balance.

"Shouldn't you be at the Palace?" he asks, his tone a mild rebuke. "Atlantis will not govern itself."

Jason waves away the comment with a flip of his hand.

"Ariadne doesn't need me there," he replies. "I was only getting in the way."

Pythagoras' frown deepens.

"Jason," he begins.

"Anyway, you didn't answer me," Jason interrupts before he can go on. "Where's my bed gone?"

Pythagoras flinches as he glances across to the now empty corner alcove where Jason used to sleep, devoid of anything that had ever belonged to his friend; there is no evidence left that Jason ever lived here – Hercules has been thorough in removing all traces from the house, leaving a jumbled pile of his own belongings in the alcove.

"You don't live here anymore," he says softly. "You left."

"I didn't expect you to wipe away all traces of me so quickly," Jason answers, sounding slightly hurt.

Pythagoras looks up sharply. Jason looks world weary; pale and drawn. Then the moment passes, and he looks like himself again, and Pythagoras can almost (but not quite) forget he ever saw the expression on his friend's face.

"It wasn't like that," he protests. "It was just… well, Hercules…"

Jason quirks an eyebrow.

"Was he drunk and gambling again?" he asks. "He lost a bet and lost my bed, didn't he?"

Pythagoras winces.

"No," he says. "It wasn't anything like that. It was just that… well… we needed the space and you were not going to be using the bed again so…"

It sounds weak to his own ears; an excuse made up to cover the truth. He doesn't tell Jason about the terrible scene he had had with Hercules when the burly man, drunk and raging against the unfairness of life, had literally ripped Jason's corner of the room apart; destroying everything he could find in his blind rage before collapsing into a despairing heap in the middle of the wreckage and finally passing out. Pythagoras had salvaged what he could while Hercules was unconscious – just a couple of small unbroken items Jason had left behind when he had gone to live in the Palace, now wrapped carefully in pieces of cloth and hidden deep in the bottom of a trunk at the foot of Pythagoras' bed where no-one else would look for them (nothing very important or valuable but wrapped as though they were the most delicate and precious items in the world). Then he had gone to bed himself. By the time he had awoken, Hercules had removed all traces of the wreckage of the previous night and all traces of Jason's presence in their lives.

"Hercules misses you," he says briskly, trying to change the subject. "He misses the way things were when it was just the three of us living here."

"He hasn't said that, has he?" Jason asks softly.

"Well, no," Pythagoras admits. "Not in so many words – you know how he is… but I know him and I know that deep down he misses you; misses _us_." He gestures around himself vaguely to indicate that he means the family that the three of them had formed.

Jason sighs.

"I miss him," he murmurs. "I miss living here and the way life used to be."

"Why don't you come when he's here?" Pythagoras encourages. "The three of us could talk… just like we used to."

"Hercules won't see me, you know that," Jason replies, his voice soft and sad. "With everything that happened… there's too much distance between us now. We can't bridge that gap no matter how much I want to."

Pythagoras swallows hard and looks down at the bench.

"Well you never will if you won't even try," he says, blinking away the tears that have risen unbidden to his eyes.

"I have tried," Jason protests. "I've tried so many times but Hercules… he just can't seem to let go of what happened. I've tried to make him see me but he just won't… or maybe he can't bring himself to… who knows?"

Pythagoras looks away, unable to face Jason in this moment. The silence stretches between them – neither knowing really how to end it. Finally, Jason attempts to change the subject again.

"Where's Icarus?" he asks.

A soft smile touches Pythagoras' lips at the thought of his young lover. Icarus has lived with him and Hercules ever since their return to Atlantis following the quest to find (and destroy) the Golden Fleece.

"With his father," he replies. "Daedalus had a new invention to test and Icarus offered to help him."

His smile widens into an amused grin as Jason shudders at the memory of meeting the irascible old inventor.

"What's he come up with _this_ time?" Jason asks. "It isn't likely to blow up the city or anything is it?"

Pythagoras supposes he can see why his friend is concerned – Daedalus' inventions and experiments _can_ be a bit unpredictable and, given that Jason had _finally_ received the blessing of the Gods and been declared King when Pasiphae was defeated once and for all, the safety of all Atlantis _is_ his friend's responsibility.

"Nothing like that," he says. "It is actually more like a new version of an old invention… It is those wings of his. He has made several refinements and created a scale model of them. He was planning to launch it from the cliff overlooking the path to the sea. He needed Icarus down on the path to retrieve the model. I believe that if his modifications are successful, he intends to make a full sized version. Both he and Icarus are very excited about it."

Jason frowns.

"He's not planning to have a person test out the full sized version is he?" he says. "I somehow can't see that being very safe… especially after last time."

Once again, Pythagoras can see his point – he isn't too keen on the idea of Icarus tempting fate and trying out the wings again himself; watching Icarus fall from the sky last time was more than enough for him.

"As it happens, I agree with you," he says. "I have suggested to Icarus that I would be less than happy if he were to test out the wings himself. He has assured me that his father has no such plans at the moment but I cannot help being a little worried. I suspect that any such test would be a long way off though – as far as I understand it, the alterations which Daedalus is making are somewhat radical and will require a great deal of experimentation and recalculation before they are completed to his satisfaction."

Jason raises an eyebrow.

"So what are you worrying about?" he asks.

"Who says I'm worrying about anything?" Pythagoras counters.

Jason scoffs, folding his arms across his chest and giving Pythagoras a very long look.

"You are out here making tonics that you don't need just to keep busy," he says. "I know you. You only do this when you're upset about something."

Pythagoras gives a wry grimace. Jason _does_ know him (knows him all too well, in fact) – it is as difficult now to keep anything from either one of his best friends as it ever was.

"It is nothing," he murmurs, looking down at the table. "I argued with Hercules, that is all. He is angry at me and has gone to the tavern."

"What did you argue about?" Jason asks and Pythagoras can hear a note in his voice that could almost be described as resignation.

Pythagoras deliberately ignores him and busies himself with grinding some grain, hands moving almost frantically in his distress.

"Pythagoras," Jason says firmly.

Pythagoras gulps.

"It was about you," he admits sharply. "Hercules thinks that I am doing no-one any good by clinging onto our friendship… That I should let you go. He says that the past is the past and should be left there."

"Oh," Jason says.

Pythagoras keeps looking down at the table, unable to face his friend, hot tears stinging his eyes because this is so damned hard and so damned unfair and he is so angry – both at Hercules for putting him in the position where he feels he has to choose between the two people (aside from Icarus of course) he is closest to, and at Jason for everything that happened in the end.

He doesn't hear Jason leave (he never does) but gradually he realises that he is alone on the balcony and that his friend has disappeared once more.

* * *

Sometimes Pythagoras has nightmares; dreams of things that happened or might have happened if things had gone just a little differently.

 _An arrow in the dark piercing soft flesh; too low to be called a shoulder injury (although they will all try to convince themselves that that's all it is); lips turned cherry red from slick blood where the arrow has pierced a lung._

 _Hercules screaming with rage._

 _Eyelids fluttering closed, covering familiar eyes._

 _Pythagoras is lying next to a camp fire._

 _"Promise me you won't leave us," he says softly. "After everything that has happened, I need you to stay."_

 _Jason half smiles but sighs at the same time. Despite the lure of Medea, he has chosen to stay with his family – his friends, his wife, his children – over everything again and again. It is a choice he will always make if he is given an option. He rolls onto his side to face Pythagoras._

 _"You know I'll stay if I can," he murmurs._

 _He can't promise because life is uncertain and who knows what tomorrow will bring? (Surely Pythagoras knows that?) And he's tired of struggling; of fighting for survival every day._

 _"That is not good enough," Pythagoras asserts urgently, his voice almost throbbing with emotion. "I need you to promise me that you are not going anywhere."_

 _Jason sighs. All he really wants to do is get some sleep and if promising Pythagoras will allow him to do that in peace then that's what he'll do._

 _"Alright," he says. "I promise."_

 _There's the loud crash of unexpected battle; an arrow in the dark; lips stained cherry red as bright blood dribbles from the corners of the mouth; blood stained hands hold a saturated cloth to a ghastly wound._

 _Hercules screams in rage and frustration._

 _Eyelids flutter closed and a chest stills._

Pythagoras gasps awake, covered in cold sweat.

It's just a dream, he tells himself. It didn't really happen that way.

Beside him, Icarus sleeps peacefully. Pythagoras looks at his lover's gentle face and smiles: Icarus looks younger than ever in sleep.

Pythagoras rolls out of bed as silently as he can so as not to wake Icarus (although he knows the chances of that happening are slim – Icarus seems to be attuned to him only too well). He pads across the floor, the wooden boards cold against his bare feet and pours himself a cup of water from the jug on the table, retreating to the balcony as is his usual custom. From behind the closed door he can hear Hercules snoring loudly – at least the older man is at home tonight and not passed out drunk in some gutter somewhere.

Looking at the stars, Pythagoras is certain that dawn cannot be more than an hour or two away. The night air is cold but he still slides down to sit against the wall in his usual place (resolutely ignoring the fact that Jason is no longer in his own customary place opposite – reminding him that his friend really doesn't live here anymore).

He sits there gazing at the stars for some time, allowing his mind to wander back through the past. Feeling warmth down one side, he knows that Icarus has joined him and turns to look at his lover (Icarus knows better than to sit in Jason's place – he learned that very early on).

"You should still be asleep," Icarus says. "What woke you? Was it that dream again?"

Pythagoras licks his lips and looks away.

"No," he lies (lying doesn't come easy – it never has – and he cannot face Icarus as he does it). "No… I… no. I do not know why I woke up but a new mathematical theory came to me and so I came out here to think about it to try to ascertain whether or not it would work."

"Right," Icarus says sceptically. "Of course you did."

He never directly accuses Pythagoras of lying, although it's obvious to them both that he doesn't really believe a word the mathematician is saying. It has become a regular occurrence, this not-quite-telling-each-other-the truth; it is almost like a dance that they do – avoiding talking about the important things; avoiding the elephant in the room.

"Will you come back to bed?" Icarus asks, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "You never seem to get enough sleep these days."

Pythagoras hesitates. He doesn't see the point of going back to bed – sleep will not come again tonight – but he doesn't want to disappoint Icarus either (feels he does that too often these days).

"Or we could stay out here and talk," Icarus adds, picking up on Pythagoras' hesitation. "It might be romantic to watch the sunrise together."

Pythagoras smiles gratefully at Icarus' thoughtfulness, his smile growing even wider as a blanket is slipped around both their shoulders until they are cuddling under it. He rests his head against Icarus' and they talk about inconsequential things until the sun comes up, secure in each other's love.

* * *

"So, how are they doing? The lessons I mean."

Pythagoras has ceased to be startled by Jason's unexpected appearances by this point. The nature of the job of King means many cares and little free time. He knows that Jason comes to see him whenever he can.

He was appointed as tutor of the royal children when the first was born (Athene, as beautiful as her mother). It had been a surprise (although perhaps it shouldn't have been) because he had never been a recognised pedagogue. Still, everything that happened both before and after her coronation – all the betrayals she had suffered (Cilix and Melas and all the others who should have supported her and hadn't) – has left Ariadne more than a little suspicious of those she doesn't know. She would rather have a friend to teach her children than a stranger, and Jason has always believed Pythagoras to be the most intelligent man he has ever met; would want no-one else to teach his children.

"They are doing well," Pythagoras assures his friend. "Athene is not destined to be a scholar, I fear, but for her age she has a good understanding of the laws of Atlantis and of politics. She shows great respect for the Gods in our lessons and grasps our political history very well." He pauses. "She seems to look a little more like her mother every time I see her," he admits.

"She's Ariadne's daughter alright," Jason agrees. "She only has to bat her eyelids and I'd do anything she wanted."

Pythagoras smiles in amusement because all three of the children have had their father wrapped around their little fingers from birth.

"If Athene is Ariadne's daughter, then Niobe is yours," he remarks. "In character at least."

It's true, and both Jason and Pythagoras know it. Niobe is a cross between her parents in looks (Ariadne's face shape and eyes; Jason's wild brown curls and bright smile) but in personality she is her father's duplicate. She has Jason's sunny nature and quick temper, and his athletic ability – much to her siblings' consternation (Pythagoras still does not know for certain but he has a feeling that the girl might be touched by the Gods like her father – although, as she is only eight, it might still be a little soon to tell).

"I suspect that Niobe will be either a scholar or a warrior," he continues. "She is remarkably bright and I find I am already teaching her additional subjects just to maintain her interest and attention in our lessons… but I believe she longs for adventure. She loves stories of our greatest heroes and asked me the other day whether I felt a girl could learn swordplay and the art of warfare."

"Atalanta fascinates her," Jason says with a smile. "I know that Ariadne wants all the children to be taught to defend themselves – the way Minos taught _her_ to use a bow – but I think it should be sooner rather than later with Niobe."

He sits down at the table opposite Pythagoras and grins, resting his arms loosely on the table top with his wrists crossed.

"And what about Alex?" he asks nonchalantly.

It had caused some consternation both with Ariadne and the rest of the court when Jason had flatly refused to bow to tradition and name their son Alexis after either one of his grandfathers (and Pythagoras knew the Queen still wasn't really happy that her husband had then shortened the name even further) but he had remained resolute; had said that there needed to be a new start and that the only way to put the past behind them was to give the boy a name with no associations – either good or bad. In many ways he is still the frustratingly stubborn boy who crashed so unexpectedly into all their lives all those years ago now (and it _is_ more years ago than Pythagoras really likes to think – the oldest of his friend's children, Athene, is already twelve).

Pythagoras pours himself a cup of wine (he still drinks only in moderation (afraid of falling into his father's vice) but wine is something that they never run out of these days (money is no longer so scarce) although he sometimes wonders if they should – Hercules' face grows a little more florid every year, his eyes a little more bloodshot and yellowed, and Pythagoras cannot see that the excessive consumption is good for him) and gestures for Jason to join him. Jason demurs (he always does) and Pythagoras toys with his cup as he thinks of his answer.

"Alexis is more interested in learning to hunt and to fight than in his studies at present," he says at length. "He is bright enough but does not apply himself in the way that his sisters do. He is, I am afraid to say, often late for his lessons and does not pay attention in the manner I would like… but he is still very young."

"He's the same age as Niobe," Jason points out, "and she manages to arrive on time and concentrate." He sighs. "Ariadne won't be happy," he adds. "She's very keen that all the children should understand their duties and their lessons are part of that."

"Do not worry," Pythagoras says with a smile. "Alexis is a charming little boy and I am certain that all three children will be a credit."

"I'm not worried," Jason answers, returning Pythagoras' smile with a grin of his own. "I'd rather they had the chance to play and be children now while they are still young enough to enjoy it. They will grow up soon enough and there will be time enough for them to learn what they need to."

Pythagoras takes a long sip of his wine, savouring the smooth, rich flavour and stretches, cat-like. The flickering candles light the room with a soft glow and he feels very mellow; completely comfortable and at ease in his friend's company. Icarus is gone to Pathmos for a few days with his father (Daedalus needs some special supplies that can only be obtained there or something) and Hercules is once again in the tavern, so it is just the two of them (actually, now that he thinks of it, Jason only ever visits when the other two are out these days).

"I have been considering giving up on eating meat," he says at length. "I have never been all that fond of the flavour to be honest."

"Why are you telling me?" Jason sounds confused. "It's a bit of a random thing to come out with."

"I am telling you because I would value your opinion," Pythagoras replies. "I am aware that it could be considered to be an unusual step but I have always preferred vegetables and pulses… apart from beans. I have never liked beans."

Jason grins and shakes his head in amusement.

"Well where I come from there are lots of people who are vegetarian," he says. "So if it makes you happy then go for it… Hercules might be horrified though."

Pythagoras laughs.

"Oh I think he might come to terms with it quickly enough… particularly when he realises that it will leave more meat for him," he answers.

Jason laughs too. The evening is so pleasant and relaxed that for a moment Pythagoras wishes it never had to end.

* * *

Pythagoras doesn't remember much about the day Icarus dies.

He goes to the beach to watch the launch of Daedalus' ridiculous wings from the cliff top almost in spite of himself. He has told Icarus that he won't be there after all. They argued both last night and before Icarus left (have argued so many times about this over the past few months; too many times). Pythagoras was certain that the wings were (are) unsafe and has been vocal in expressing that over and over again. Icarus kept arguing that his father knew what he was doing and would _never_ risk Icarus' life, and so they have gone round and round in circles until they are both sick of it.

Later, when he thinks about it, Pythagoras will remember that the day was fine and the sun hot and that Icarus had been laughing with delight as he had stood on the cliff top; the sun had caught in his caught in his hair until he had seemed to be surrounded by a halo of light.

Pythagoras is still angry at him though, so he doesn't wish Icarus luck (something he later regrets deeply); just wanders down to the beach to watch the launch from a distance. He watches Icarus take off, gliding higher and higher on the currents of warm air until he is a distant speck, high above.

The first warning that he gets that something is wrong is when he hears distant shouting coming from the cliff top. He's too far away to make out the words or see the expression on Daedalus' face but his body language is clear; he has dashed to the very edge of the cliff and is reaching out imploringly towards the distant speck that Icarus makes, shouting towards the sky and, while the words may not be audible to Pythagoras, the desperation in his tone is.

From there, the day becomes a blur. He remembers seeing feathers falling from the sky but he can't quite remember seeing Icarus plummeting towards the earth to be swallowed up by the waves (something that he should possibly be grateful for because it's an image he really doesn't want).

He vaguely remembers Hercules holding him back, yelling loudly and swearing (alternately cursing and praying to every god that he thinks might be possibly listening). He remembers sinking down onto the sand and refusing to leave; it's dark by the time that Hercules gives up trying to cajole him and simply throws him over his shoulder to take him home. He supposes that the boats launched to search for Icarus must have come back to shore by then (because they can hardly search after dark when they can't see anything) and he supposes that they probably go out again the next morning (searching for the body because no-one believes they will find Icarus alive by that point) but he doesn't really _know_ ; doesn't remember.

He knows Ariadne was here at some point; he is certain he heard her voice calmly sending her guards away and felt her soft hands running through his hair. Hercules shoves a cup into his hand with the gruff instruction to drink it all down. It's more wine than he would usually drink in one go and has a bitter aftertaste that tells him it has been laced with one of his own calming tonics (he suspects Ariadne has found it for Hercules because his old friend has never been able to tell one tonic from the other and left to his own devices would undoubtedly have given him a draught to soothe a cough or sort out a hangover) but he drinks it down without complaint; too shocked by everything that has happened today to think clearly or object to his friends' ministrations.

Now it is hours later, he is lying on his bed alone in the dark and the tears have finally come; he sobs silently into his pillow, unwilling to make a fuss; not wanting to upset anyone else with his grief. There have been other people coming and going all evening (although Pythagoras has not been aware enough to identify who they were) but through it all Hercules has remained a constant comforting presence. Now though, even he has sought his bed, worn out by the events of the day.

Gradually, Pythagoras begins to feel a warm weight against his back and a pair of gentle but strong arms that wrap themselves around him comfortingly. For a moment he can revel in the warmth and pretend that it is Icarus there in bed with him (where he should be at this time of night) – but the arms don't feel quite like Icarus' and the scent of the person with him is wrong; it is a scent that has always been (and always will be) peculiarly Jason.

"Why are you here?" Pythagoras says, his voice hitching with sobs; burying his face into the pillow.

"You need me," Jason murmurs gently.

Pythagoras lets out a shuddering breath.

"I want him back," he says. "Jason, I want him here."

He feels Jason sigh against his back.

"I know," Jason admits. "And I wish there was a way I could bring Icarus back to you. I wish there was something I could do… but it's just not in my power."

"Then what use are you?" Pythagoras demands bitterly.

He doesn't really mean it though and they both know it.

Jason's arms tighten around him.

"Maybe none," he admits, "but I still think you need someone with you right now."

"I don't know what to do," Pythagoras says despairingly.

"Sleep," Jason answers. "Just sleep. It's late and you are exhausted. I won't say things will look better in the morning because I don't think they will… but you'll be able to face them better if you get some rest now."

"I am not sure that I can," Pythagoras replies.

"I know," Jason says. "Just close your eyes and try to rest. I'm going to stay right here for as long as you need me."

"You do not have to stay," Pythagoras protests. "I know that you cannot stay for long. You should not even be here at all. Especially this late at night."

"I'm not going anywhere, Pythagoras," Jason murmurs.

Pythagoras feels himself dissolving into helpless tears again. It's the unexpected kindness that undoes him; it's not that Jason is ever unkind, it's more that he's always been the less physically demonstrative of Pythagoras' two closest friends – has always shown his love for his friends in other ways; has never been one to initiate a hug. So for him to be here, now, holding Pythagoras as he cries speaks volumes.

He rolls onto his back and feels Jason tugging him towards him, murmuring comforting nonsense that Pythagoras can neither properly hear nor make sense of in his distressed state. He buries his head in Jason's shoulder and lets his heart break openly.

Finally, he has no more tears left to cry. He feels drained; empty and bone-achingly tired. Encouraged by his friend, he allows his gritty eyes to drift shut and sleep to take him.

The next few days pass in a blur. Pythagoras isn't there when they find Icarus' body (Hercules won't let him go back to the beach after that first day; doesn't want him to see) and bring him back to his father's house (and really shouldn't they have brought Icarus home to him? It has been years since Icarus lived in his father's house after all). Daedalus is a broken man but Pythagoras can't find the sympathy and kindness in his heart to feel sorry for him. He had warned them (warned them repeatedly) that the wings weren't bloody well safe – had never wanted Icarus to make that flight – but his objections had been waved away and he had been dismissed as overly cautious, and look where that has left them.

He goes with Hercules to see Icarus' body where it's laid out in Daedalus' house-cum-workshop and to make arrangements for the funeral. He knows that Ariadne has offered to make all the arrangements (and to pay for everything – she feels that is the least she owes Icarus after all they went through together on the _Argo_ ) but this is something he needs to do for himself.

Icarus no longer looks like himself. Pythagoras doesn't know why he is surprised – he knows anatomy after all; knows the changes that take place after death; and knows that Icarus' body was floating in the sea for a couple of days, so there are bound to be some changes. He insists on laying out the body himself; on preparing Icarus for his journey to the underworld; refuses to allow the corpse bearers to do the job. It is the last practical thing he can do for his lover and it isn't as if this is the first time he has had to perform the task for someone – he can hardly be said to be squeamish.

The funeral itself is a simple one. Icarus is laid to rest in his family plot alongside his long dead mother with the coin to pay Charon for his passage resting in his mouth. The funeral procession itself is small – just Pythagoras, Hercules and Daedalus start out from Daedalus' house in the still air just before the dawn. It is a surprise (although perhaps it shouldn't be really) when Ariadne, dressed in the simple clothes of a peasant rather than her rich robes, joins them in one of the side streets near to the Sacred Way (clearly having evaded the Palace guards to come here alone), following the burial cart as it makes its slow way to the burial ground by the Western Gate. Before they reach the burial grounds, Pythagoras looks back and finds that Jason has also joined them, moving on silent feet at the back of the group. Jason half smiles at him and nods a greeting. He stays at the back of the group, knowing perhaps that Hercules, in particular, would not acknowledge his presence and not wishing to disrupt the proceedings.

At the graveside, Pythagoras makes a libation to the Gods and offers up the traditional prayer, then Icarus is buried (he does allow the corpse bearers to do this bit – has no wish to dig Icarus' grave himself) and they all return home. There will be other prayers and offerings in the quiet of their own homes, of course, but for now the ritual is complete.

As they turn to go, Pythagoras can't help noticing that Jason has slipped away again. Perhaps it is for the best though – he can't bear the thought of there being an unpleasant scene at Icarus' graveside.

Time seems to stop now that he no longer has the arrangements for the funeral to focus on. Hercules is constantly at his side (a solid, comforting presence) and when he isn't there Jason is (if Pythagoras didn't know better he would think that they have organised it between them). They keep him company and stop him from focussing too much on what he has lost; cajole him to eat and bully him into sleeping. It's probably a good thing that they do; he's not really up to living or thinking for himself at the moment – merely going through the motions of life – and left to his own devices he probably wouldn't bother to eat or sleep.

Sometimes he's grateful for their attentions; other times he's angry (so angry) and lashes out with cruel words. He doesn't really mean it and it's not their fault but he can't seem to help himself; he's bitter and grieving and nothing seems right with the world anymore. It is to their credit that neither one of his friends takes offence when he lashes out (although Hercules _does_ take himself off to the tavern at times to help him keep his temper and Jason always appears shortly after he leaves – Pythagoras has ceased to question how he knows).

Gradually though, Pythagoras finds himself returning to life without really knowing how or when it's happened. He returns to teaching the royal children at the Palace, sharing a meal and a flagon of wine with Hercules in the evenings and working on his triangles and his theories in his spare time, and if he smiles less than he used to then surely that's only to be expected really.

* * *

"What do you believe happens to us after we have died?"

They are sitting on the floor of the balcony facing each other the way they used to in the early days of their friendship, a flagon of wine half drunk sitting near Pythagoras. Jason looks at his friend quizzically.

"I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask," he replies. "Cassandra might be a better choice."

He has never quite been able to bring himself to call Cassandra the Oracle (even if that's what she is). The Oracle (as far as Jason is concerned) will always be the graceful, older (and, at least as far as he was concerned, motherly) lady who was so kind to him and tried to guide him when he first arrived in Atlantis. Cassandra, on the other hand, will always be the innocent young girl who travelled with them on the _Argo_.

"No," Pythagoras says. "I do not believe this is a question which I wish to discuss with either the priests or the Oracle. I suspect they would simply tell me the generally accepted version."

"And you don't believe it?" Jason asks. "I should probably remind you that Hercules and I travelled to Hades once upon a time… and to Tartarus."

"Oh, I know that both Hades and Tartarus exist," Pythagoras responds. "But I cannot help thinking that there must be more than that."

Jason frowns.

"What do you mean?" he says.

"I cannot see how Hades can be large enough to contain every soul that has ever lived," Pythagoras answers. "There must be thousands of them… millions probably."

"Probably," Jason agrees, sounding amused.

"When you visited Hades, did you see thousands of people?"

"Well, no," Jason replies. "But we did only see a little bit of it."

"Indeed," Pythagoras murmurs. "The kingdom of the dead seems to me to be a pretty meaningless place." He pauses, marshalling his thoughts. "Everything we are told about the afterlife… the dead have no purpose; they merely continue. Their existence is simply a mockery of their lives. They are frozen in the moment of death and can take no pleasure in their continued existence."

He is gesturing with his cup as he speaks, using it to emphasise what he is saying.

"I simply cannot believe that there is no more purpose to the soul's continued existence than that," he continues forcefully.

"So what _do_ you think happens?" Jason asks with a faint half-knowing smile.

"I believe… I hope… that Hades is simply somewhere where we wait," Pythagoras answers.

"Wait for what?"

"For our next life," Pythagoras replies. "I believe that when we die, we are reborn. That every soul is immortal and that it transmigrates into a new form after death."

"You believe in reincarnation," Jason murmurs.

Pythagoras looks at him in frowning confusion; reincarnation is not a word he is familiar with. He opens his mouth to question what Jason means but does not actually get that far when his friend continues.

"Reincarnation is just another word for what you were describing," Jason says. "And you're definitely not the only person ever to have come up with the idea or to believe in it." He pauses and smiles. "So do you think our souls are just reborn over and over again forever? Or do we eventually achieve some sort of mystical enlightenment in the end and stop being reborn at that point?"

"You are laughing at me," Pythagoras accuses sharply.

"I promise I'm not," Jason answers earnestly. "I'm actually really interested in what you believe." He hesitates. "Do you think that, if we have a strong connection with someone in this life, we get to see them again in the next? I mean… do you believe that souls can be linked? So if there's someone who's important to you – who you love – whether it's as a lover or a friend or family, you get to meet them again after you're both reborn?"

"I do not know," Pythagoras admits. "That is something that will require greater thought and greater study… but I do hope so."

"And my other question?" Jason asks softly. "Do you think we carry on being reborn forever or is there some sort of purpose to all this?" He gestures around himself. "Do we ever reach a point where our souls are at peace?"

"I do not know the answer to that either," Pythagoras replies. "It is also an aspect which I believe will require greater thought and greater study."

Jason grins.

"Well if it's studying we're talking about then there's no man more suited to the task than you," he says. "You're by far the cleverest man I know."

"Daedalus is cleverer than I am," Pythagoras protests.

"No," Jason responds, "I don't think he is. I think you are just as clever as he is – perhaps more so – but in a different way. Most of what he comes up with is so impractical that it's pretty much useless."

"That is not completely true," Pythagoras says with a smile. "But I thank you for thinking it."

"Well I think it _is_ true," Jason replies. He pauses for a moment and then looks at Pythagoras out of the corner of his eyes. "What's brought this on anyway?"

"Sorry?" Pythagoras asks, confused.

"This… conversation about the afterlife," Jason says gently. "You're not trying to tell me something are you?"

Pythagoras stares at him for a moment.

"No!" he exclaims with a startled laugh. "No, not at all!"

Jason looks relieved.

Pythagoras supposes he can understand it (both the question and the relief); it's nearing the second anniversary of Icarus' death and he has been a little more temperamental than usual over the past few days (Hercules has been disappearing to the tavern more and more – although that's nothing unusual anymore; there is no curbing his drinking these days (not since… well, not since everything happened – and it's been _years_ now) and it shows – the yellowed skin, bloodshot eyes and trembling hands whenever he is not drinking show that Hercules is no longer a casual drunk).

"Good," Jason says. "That's… well, that's a bit of a relief to be honest." He looks at Pythagoras quizzically. "So why the sudden interest then?" he asks.

"Oh, it is not sudden," Pythagoras replies. "I have been thinking about this for many years… It was a thought that first occurred to me as a child on Samos and I have theorised over it on and off ever since I grew into manhood. It is, however, not a commonly held opinion and I suspect there are those who would say that it is an offence to the Gods to even think such things… As a consequence, it is not something that I have ever spoken of before." He hesitated for a moment. "You, however, have never seemed as bound by tradition and belief as many of our fellow citizens…"

"Mainly because I didn't know what the traditions were when I came here," Jason responds.

"Somehow I doubt you would have been overly concerned even if you had understood the beliefs of society," Pythagoras murmurs. "You have never seemed worried about the beliefs of others."

He smiles at his friend.

"I do not mean that as a criticism," he adds. "The fact that you think for yourself and always try to do the right thing even if it is not what convention says you _should_ do is to your credit."

"Thanks… I think," Jason answers with a wry little smile.

He looks down towards the floor and then glances back up at Pythagoras, peering at his friend from under his eyelashes.

"I think what people believe is up to them," he adds softly. "When it comes to what you believe, the only opinion that really counts is your own." He nudges Pythagoras gently with his foot. "What other people believe is fine for them… but what you believe is right for you."

"Thank you," Pythagoras says sincerely.

"For what?" Jason asks.

"For not laughing at me," Pythagoras replies. "Many others would."

He closes his eyes and allows his head to rest back against the post he is sitting against, mind drifting.

Jason reaches across the space between them and covers Pythagoras' hand with his own; his touch is warm, solid and somehow very comfortable.

"I might joke about the unimportant things," he says earnestly, "but I would never really laugh at you… especially about something that is so important to you."

Pythagoras swallows past the sudden lump in his throat; he has never known what he has done to deserve the absolute faith and friendship of both Jason and Hercules.

"I know," he says quietly. "Anyway," he adds, determined to change the direction of the conversation, "did I tell you what happened when I went to buy bread from Rhesus? He is the son of Rodas… do you remember Rodas?"

Jason frowns.

"I would be lying if I said I did," he replies honestly.

"He was the blind baker Hercules used to steal bread from," Pythagoras answers.

Jason snorts a laugh.

"God, that's going back a few years," he states.

"More than a few," Pythagoras acknowledges. "And definitely more than I like to think about." He pauses for a moment. "There are times when I miss those days," he admits. "When we all lived here together and most of the time the most serious thing to think of was where we were going to get our next meal from."

"Life was simpler then," Jason agrees. "They were good days… the risk of starvation notwithstanding." His eyes are distant, showing that his thoughts are lost in their shared past. "Do you remember the time when Hercules got drunk and we had to get him down off that roof?" he asks, grinning.

"Which time?" Pythagoras responds, with an amused smile and a raised eyebrow.

"It happened more than once?" Jason blurts, taken by surprise.

Pythagoras laughs. Jason still looks so young whenever he is startled (he looks younger than he is most of the time but it's more noticeable when he is surprised).

"Oh yes," the mathematician replies. "At least three times to my knowledge. The first time that I know of must have been two years or so before you arrived in Atlantis. Let me tell you about it. It was the first night of Poseidonia and Hercules had been out celebrating for most of the day."

He settles down to tell his story, pouring himself another cup of wine and preparing to spend a pleasant evening sharing reminiscences of the past with an old friend.

* * *

It's winter when Hercules' health starts failing. Or maybe it happened before that but has been so gradual that Pythagoras is only just noticing. Years of heavy drinking (almost constant for the last few years) have finally taken their toll. It shouldn't be a surprise, of course – the burly former wrestler was far from being a young man back when Jason had arrived in Atlantis and he's an old man now – and yet somehow it is; somehow he had almost managed to convince himself that his larger-than-life friend was immortal.

By spring, Hercules is a shadow of his former self; he's lost weight rapidly (not good for a man who was always large – or to use his own phrase 'big boned'), his once booming voice has become querulous and he barely eats (the thing that worries Pythagoras the most given that Hercules' appetite was infamous). He's growing increasingly forgetful too; some days he forgets that Medusa has been dead for nearly twenty years – he demands to see her and grows angry when Pythagoras can't immediately produce her; seems to believe that his old friend is deliberately keeping them apart and throws bile filled words at the mathematician (which he won't remember saying later).

He's tired all the time too and, despite the weight he has clearly lost, his stomach and lower legs are swollen. He's jaundiced and weak, has regular nose bleeds and his gums bleed constantly, and it hurts Pythagoras to see him like this more than he can say.

The day he starts vomiting blood is also the day that Pythagoras starts praying for the end to come quickly and painlessly. It makes him feel guilty, because what sort of friend hopes for their best friend to die quickly? But the sad truth is that he knows that Hercules will not recover and does not wish his old friend to suffer. He has seen this before and knows now that the end is inevitable; there is little he can do to help Hercules – he is simply too far gone.

As time goes on, Pythagoras finds himself increasingly giving up his usual everyday activities to care for his old friend. It is a self-imposed duty that he does not (cannot) begrudge or regret (isn't entirely sure he would trust anyone else to look after Hercules properly. No-one else loves the old man like he does; no-one else has the same history with him – the same bonds forged over many years). Ariadne comes to help him when she can (and more often than not sends someone to help him when she can't get there herself) – even if all she can really do is sit and talk with their old friend while Pythagoras goes to the market, or tidies the house, or cooks something to try to tempt Hercules into eating (futile though that may be most days). At other times she chases Pythagoras out of the house "to get some fresh air and have a break" even though he has no reason to be out and ends up wandering the streets aimlessly until he can sneak back in without rousing the Queen's ire.

When the end comes though, it's still a shock. Pythagoras gets up (as he usually does) in the still cool time before the dawn and goes into Hercules' room to check on his friend (Hercules' sleep is often restless and about the only thing Pythagoras can really do for him these days is to provide painkilling tonics to help him to be as comfortable as possible), only to find that his prayers have been granted; Hercules has passed peacefully – slipping away in his sleep. He suspects that his old friend's heart has finally given out and in many ways it's a relief; Hercules has not been himself for a long time and Pythagoras has hated to see him suffering in this way.

Pythagoras pauses for a long moment at the former wrestler's side, his hand covering Hercules', and murmurs a quick prayer to the Gods. He cannot allow himself to feel yet (to feel the loss of his oldest friend would cripple him and he has too much to do) so he throws himself into doing all the little tasks that will need to be done; moving automatically – almost mechanically.

He goes back to his own room and finds a coin (a silver dekadrachm saved for a rainy day but no less than his friend deserves to pay his way) to place in Hercules' mouth. On his way back to Hercules' room, he stops and pens a quick note to the Palace. Ariadne deserves to know what has happened.

Outside he spots one of the urchins that run wild in the streets and gives him a coin to take the note to the Palace; promising the child a larger reward on his return to ensure he will actually deliver the message. It is a trick he learned from Hercules in those long-lost days when Ariadne was newly Queen and Telemon (Gods, how many years is it since he thought of that bastard?) was plotting against her while playing the loving husband-to-be to her face.

Back inside, he collects a bowl of water and a cloth and wanders back into Hercules' room. Placing them down on the chest at the end of his old friend's bed, he moves purposefully back into the other room and grabs a large bowl, several bunches of sweet smelling herbs and as many candles as he can carry in one go.

With gentle hands he washes and dries Hercules' hands and face, placing his hands across his chest when he is done. He lays out the candles on every available surface around the bed and lights them, making ritual prayers to the Gods. The feeling of deja-vu is really quite incredible (but possibly understandable – he _has_ been here before after all, when Hercules and Jason travelled to the underworld; only that time Hercules was an active participant in the rituals to allow him to cross the river into Hades and this time there will be no coming back). The bundles of herbs he lays in the large bowl and sets alight. They serve a dual purpose of an offering to the Gods and at the same time give the room a far more pleasant scent – taking away the smell of sickness and death.

It is still not quite dawn and the city has not yet awoken. With great care, Pythagoras places the dekadrachm between his old friend's lips and, hands outstretched, murmurs one last prayer (for now at least). He isn't quite sure what to do now to be honest. The city is not yet awake so he will not be able to contact the corpse bearers until later. In a way he's rather grateful for that; grateful for these last few hours with someone who has been a big part of his life for almost as long as he can remember (he was little more than a boy when he had arrived in Atlantis and met Hercules after all).

Ariadne arrives with the Sun. It isn't really a surprise; she is still fiercely loyal towards those who travelled with her on the _Argo_ and helped to overthrow Pasiphae (and especially loyal and caring towards Pythagoras and Hercules since they are the two who (along with Jason of course) shared her exile in the forest when Pasiphae first stole the throne from her and who volunteered to protect her with their lives when no-one else would). She brings her children with her.

Athene, eighteen now and remarkably beautiful (she looks like Ariadne as Pythagoras remembers her being at that sort of age), is utterly inconsolable. Of the three children she is the one who has always been closest to Hercules. As a young child she had followed the big man around like a little puppy, listening to his tall tales (carefully censored for young ears) with wonder, laughing at his jokes and liking nothing more than to snuggle up to him when she was tired (or really at any time to be honest). Hercules had revelled in it; Athene had had him wrapped around her little finger almost from the moment she was born.

Somehow the twins never became as close to the big man as their sister. Pythagoras privately suspects that it is because they reminded Hercules too much of their father. Niobe might be a cross between her parents in looks, but in personality she is startlingly like Jason. She is stubborn, can be wilful, has _very_ strong opinions on things (at fourteen she still has a very black and white view of the world; categorises people and things as 'good' or 'bad' and cannot imagine that they might be both. Then again, Pythagoras still believes that Jason used to do the same thing – at least when they first met) and will always follow her heart and stand up for what she believes to be right – even when she is wrong. She is also very caring, has a mischievous sense of humour and is deeply loyal to those she cares about.

Alexis, on the other hand, has a little more of his mother's personality but is the living image of his father. He looks very much how Pythagoras imagines Jason would have looked at fourteen. There are times when Pythagoras catches sight of the boy out of the corner of his eye and nearly calls him by his father's name – especially now that Alexis is growing taller (he turned around the other day and was surprised to see that the boy is now at his shoulder). Pythagoras suspects that it will only get worse as Alexis grows older; he can easily imagine that the boy will be able to pass for Jason in just a few short years.

Pythagoras knows that Hercules tried not to hold it against the twins that they were more like their father than their mother (either in looks or character) but the simple (and sad) truth is that he never managed to be close to either of them because of his memories. He had loved Jason almost as much as he had loved Pythagoras (saw both men as more than friends; as family – perhaps even as the sons he had never actually had) and what had happened had hurt him deeply.

It hadn't always been like that though. Pythagoras remembered the twins being born. Those had been dreadful days if he were being honest with himself (much as he would like to remember them fondly). Any birth was risky and those involving more than one infant were even more so. The twins had been born early and very small and (despite Pythagoras and the Oracle's best efforts) both they and Ariadne had seemed likely to die.

The children had rallied reasonably quickly once they had been persuaded to suckle from hastily obtained wet nurses but Ariadne had hovered between life and death for days. Jason had been inconsolable, desperate, despairing, and (since Pythagoras' whole attention had been focussed on saving the life of the Queen and her infant children) it had fallen to Hercules to try to look after their friend; trying to persuade Jason to eat and sleep – to take care of himself in any way – had been a difficult task on its own and Hercules had resorted to a mixture of cajoling and threats to keep the young King alive and relatively healthy.

They had been close back then, Pythagoras remembers with a sigh; back before disaster had struck (and, really, he should have known that something was bound to go wrong; all three of them seemed to be plagued with the worst luck).

"It will be alright," Ariadne says softly. "I know it seems hard now… it _is_ hard now… how could it not be? Hercules has always been so larger than life that it seems impossible to imagine life without him… and you are his oldest friend… I cannot imagine how you must be feeling… but he would not want you to be unhappy."

She is floundering for words and Pythagoras realises with a start that she is trying to comfort him. The truth is though that he is not sad – not yet anyway. Oh he knows only too well that a time will come when he will feel Hercules' loss keenly (when a yawning pit of emptiness will open up in his gut and the enormity of his old friend's death will hit him) but for now he is dry eyed; too grateful that the former wrestler is no longer suffering to be truly sad.

He will grieve in his own time and in his own way but he is not insensible to the fact that Ariadne may be finding comfort and consolation in attempting to comfort him, so he hugs her close (once upon a time he would never have dared to touch her for propriety's sake but they are both long past the point where they worry about that; have been almost-brother-and-sister for too many years) and rests his head against her shoulder, allowing her to stroke his back and pet his hair, murmuring soft words into his ears. She will miss Hercules too – Pythagoras knows that only too well. Her close friendship with Hercules was forged in those long-ago days in the forest when they were on the run from Pasiphae's forces.

Having released Pythagoras from her embrace, Ariadne goes into Hercules' room to offer her own prayers, leaving him to try to console the children (Athene in particular). When she comes out, she sits down at the table and takes the mathematician's hand in her own before asking delicately about the funeral. It will follow the accepted form, of course, but Ariadne wants the formal proceedings to take place in the Temple of Poseidon (an unheard of honour for someone not of royal birth or blood); wants to be allowed to publicly honour a man who did so much for both her and Jason in those early days and who has continued to be a friend to her in all the years since. Pythagoras finds that he does not have the energy or inclination to object and so Ariadne gets her own way (which isn't really unexpected – she _is_ Queen after all and her word is law).

As the sun rises higher in the sky, other visitors come and go; officials from the Palace to ask the Queen to return (Ariadne sends them away with sharp words); friends both old and new come to pay their respects (several of the wine merchants seem almost inconsolable – but that may be just because they can foresee a steep decline in their profits, Pythagoras thinks uncharitably); and Poseidon's Oracle – a surprise to those who do not know the history between the Seeress and these people; she rarely leaves the sanctuary of the Temple these days after all.

Cassandra has grown more beautiful with the years; she is a middle aged woman at the height of her powers, graceful and elegant, and not the innocent, frightened young girl who fled with them from Atlantis and was a companion on the _Argo_. Her once shaved head now has flowing, dark hair, intricately woven and bound about with ribbons and strings of pearls (a symbol of her position as Oracle; only the lower priestesses and acolytes of Poseidon shave their heads). She is kind, gentle and enigmatic and offers her sympathy and support in any way she can, although her words (as usual) are loaded with hidden meanings too obscure for most to fathom. She doesn't stay long (cannot – her duties at the Temple call to her) but it is enough that she came.

Finally, Ariadne admits that she has to return to the Palace. There are some duties which she cannot postpone and which cannot be undertaken by anyone else, although she promises to return as soon as they are complete. With her children surrounding her, she makes her way into the street to join the guards who have been waiting for her there and to return to the Citadel.

"I wish she wouldn't wear black so often. It always makes her look so sad."

Jason's voice startles Pythagoras and he turns to see his friend watching his wife out of the window. He hadn't noticed Jason arrive with his family, but he supposes it's more than possible that he's been here all along, just staying in the background out of the way; Jason has never been wonderfully good with feelings after all and it's quite possible that he would have allowed Ariadne to step forward and take the lead. It's equally possible (probably more likely in fact) that he was unable to come earlier and arrived later than his wife and children, letting himself into the little house he had once shared with his two friends quietly and unobtrusively. Whichever it is, Pythagoras is glad he's here now.

"She is showing honour for Hercules," Pythagoras replies softly. "Besides, she has suffered many losses over the years – some greater than others."

"I know," Jason says with a sigh, crossing the room to sit opposite Pythagoras at the table. "I just wish…"

He breaks off, leaving whatever it is he wishes left unsaid. He looks weary, defeated, in a way that Pythagoras has very rarely seen. It makes the mathematician's heart clench.

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to get here more often in the last couple of months," Jason adds. "I would have been here if I could. You know how it is."

"Yes," Pythagoras agrees, because he _does_ know how it is; he knows Jason's time is rarely his own to do with as he wants.

"In the end… was it peaceful?" Jason asks, glancing towards Hercules' room.

"He went to sleep and did not wake up," Pythagoras replies. "I think that that is as peaceful as anyone could wish." He hesitates for a moment. "I wish you had been here," he adds.

"Me too," Jason responds hoarsely, swallowing hard. "But I don't think Hercules would have wanted me here." He glances towards the other room again. "You know he wouldn't see me."

"I know," Pythagoras says. "I just wish things could have been different."

"So do I," Jason says earnestly. He huffs a laugh that contains no humour. "I'm going to miss the old bugger," he adds.

"Yes," Pythagoras answers. "I will too."

And just like that the enormity of what's happened hits him – Hercules, his oldest friend and companion, his chief support in the early days of his life in Atlantis, is gone. Tears burn his eyes and run down his face as he grasps and pulls at his own hair, sobbing as quietly as he can manage – not wanting to make a fuss but not quite able to contain himself either.

In an instant, he's wrapped in an embrace, his head resting on his friend's shoulder. Jason has come around the table and crouched down next to him as fast as he can. As the shoulder of his own tunic becomes wet, Pythagoras becomes aware that Jason is also crying (albeit silently – for as long as he can remember Pythagoras has never actually heard Jason sob audibly even when he has known that his friend has been crying). Somehow it feels right that there is no-one else here now; that it is just the two of them sharing their sorrow. They were Hercules' closest friends for years after all.

The days that come next pass swiftly; so swiftly that he loses track. It isn't like when he lost Icarus – his whole world doesn't stop, but he does throw himself into his work to get through these early days of grief as easily as he can. It isn't until he turns around one day and counts them up in his head that he realises an entire month has passed without him realising.

One month turns into two, and two into six, and before he really knows it summer is here again. Pythagoras finds he is growing restless, an idea taking root that he tries to dispel but cannot quite manage it; that it is finally time to move on and leave Atlantis (leave the home he has created and cherished) behind. It isn't the same here without Hercules; it no longer feels like his home.

Still, he holds off saying anything for some time; holds off thinking about it as much as possible. He doesn't want to hurt the few friends he has left after all.

"What's troubling you?"

Pythagoras smiles softly at Jason's question. He and his friend have always been uncannily in tune with one another – right from the early days of their friendship.

It's the middle of the day and the mathematician has broken off from his work to eat something (in years gone by he might have ignored his own bodily needs while he was studying until one of his friends reminded him to eat or sleep; now he is acutely aware that, more often than not, there is no-one here to remind him). Jason has turned up unexpectedly but he is not unwelcome.

"It is nothing," Pythagoras answers, reaching out to take an olive.

"Pythagoras, I know you," Jason retorts, "and I know when something is bothering you."

Pythagoras sighs.

"It really is unimportant," he says. "It is merely something I have been pondering. No doubt I will soon forget."

Jason raises an eyebrow and Pythagoras sighs again.

"Since Hercules died, Atlantis no longer feels like home," he admits. "I still expect to see him everywhere. I still expect to see Icarus…"

"You are thinking of leaving," Jason murmurs softly. It is not a question.

"Perhaps," Pythagoras replies. "I am not certain what I want at present."

Jason's smile is as sad as it is knowing.

"Yes you do," he says. "You just haven't accepted it yet. You're doing what you always do and trying to think about everyone else before yourself. For once in your life, Pythagoras, put yourself first."

"I do not wish to upset anyone," Pythagoras protests. "You are my friends – my family. I would miss you all."

"And we will miss you," Jason replies. "But I know I speak for Ariadne too when I say that we would just want you to be happy… and if that means leaving Atlantis then so be it. We would visit."

Pythagoras raises an eyebrow and gives Jason a long, hard look.

"You are all busy people," he points out. "Atlantis needs to be governed. I could hardly expect anyone to drop everything for me."

"I will _never_ be too busy for you," Jason answers earnestly. "I though you'd know that by now… and Ariadne would relish the chance to get away from the city occasionally. She loves Atlantis and is proud to be Queen but sometimes… well, sometimes I think a break would do her good." He pauses for a second and reaches out to cover Pythagoras' hand with his own. "Both of us want what's best for you," he adds softly.

"Thank you," Pythagoras says. "It does mean a lot to me that you would not attempt to stand in my way." He smiles gently. "It has been a privilege to tutor your children," he says quietly. "Especially as I have no formal background in pedagogy… and I know there were those at court who opposed my appointment."

"There's no-one else I would _ever_ have chosen," Jason replies seriously, "and I know that Ariadne feels the same way about it."

Pythagoras' smile widens and he nods his head in acknowledgement.

"The point I was about to make is that the children are nearly grown now," he says. "They will not need me for much longer."

"They'll always need you," Jason murmurs. "But I take your point that perhaps they won't actually need a tutor for much longer."

"Athene is grown into a very lovely and graceful young woman," Pythagoras replies. "She is more than ready to take on her adult duties and responsibilities… and it will not be long until Alexis leaves my tutelage to begin his military training – which will just leave Niobe…"

Jason chuckles.

"Niobe is still trying to persuade her mother to let her start weapons and tactics training with her brother," he says. "I don't think Ariadne's very keen on that idea though. I mean, she wants all the children to know how to defend themselves if they need too, but she also wants Niobe to learn to be a bit more diplomatic and a bit more ladylike."

"She will have her work cut out," Pythagoras answers, trying not to laugh. "Niobe is as stubborn as you."

"I know," Jason responds. "But she's a good girl too. She likes to make her mother happy… and Ariadne ultimately wants Niobe to be happy too. They'll compromise in the end." He looks away for a moment before refocussing his gaze on his friend. "Where will you go?" he asks, as though Pythagoras has already decided to leave.

"I do not know," Pythagoras replies. "Perhaps nowhere… but I do feel the urge to see the world again. I might travel for a time. I have always wanted to see Athens… and the opportunities for study there are immense… and, who knows? Even if I do decide to leave Atlantis for a time, I might find that I do not enjoy travel and wish to return home. But I do think I need to see a little of the world again – and not when I am running for my life this time."

Jason offers him a small half-smile; a shadow of his usual grin.

"I think it is a good plan," he says softly. "There is nothing to really tie you down to Atlantis anymore. Go out and enjoy yourself – it's what Hercules would have wanted… as long as I will still be welcome to visit you wherever you end up that is…"

"You know I will never turn you away," Pythagoras objects. He looks out of the window for a moment, deep in thought. "You were right," he admitted. "I do know what I want. I will not hurry to leave but I will begin the preparations. It is time to go out and see what the world still has to offer."

* * *

"Were we ever that young?" Jason asks, standing in the window and looking out at the young men in the courtyard below.

The day is very hot but a slight breeze from the sea ripples the light curtains at the window, making them dance. Pythagoras looks up from his work with a faint smile.

"Younger, I think," he says with humour, moving to join his friend.

He never had managed to get to Athens, but Croton suits him well enough. The weather is good and the school he ended up founding here is flourishing (as evidenced by the young men milling around the courtyard; gathering in little groups to debate and discuss or studying alone).

"I received a letter from Ariadne this morning," he adds, glancing sideways at Jason. "She writes that Athene is to be married before the summer is out."

Jason grunts.

"Yes," he answers. "To a Prince of Aegina no less."

"You do not approve?" Pythagoras asks. "Surely Athene cannot marry without permission?"

"There is no reason to withhold permission," Jason growls. "Apparently it is a very suitable match and the young man seems pleasant enough. Athene seems keen." He sighs. "I think it's more that he's from Aegina that I have a problem with. I can't help remembering Telemon…"

"Hmm," Pythagoras agrees. "And perhaps a small part of you thinks that no man will ever be good enough for her?" he suggests gently, looking at Jason from the corner of his eyes.

"Maybe," Jason acknowledges. He sighs again. "When I think of Athene, I don't think of her as a grown woman," he admits. "I think of the little four-year-old girl with braided hair, climbing up onto Hercules' lap and demanding another story."

"As far as I have been told, that is one of the downsides to being a father," Pythagoras says. "That no matter how old your daughter gets – or you get for that matter – you will always see her as your little girl."

Jason chuckles and turns to look at Pythagoras.

"You might well be right," he says ruefully. "I can never get my head around the fact that all three of the children are grown up. It seems like yesterday since they were being born… hell, it only seems like yesterday that we were on _Argo_."

"That was more than twenty years ago," Pythagoras points out with a wry smile. "Not that anyone who met you would know it. You only look a few years older than you did then. How is it that you don't seem to age the same way the rest of us do?"

Jason shrugs awkwardly, clearly embarrassed and Pythagoras wishes he hadn't brought the subject up. What he said was true though. He knows that Jason is around the same age as he is but does not look it these days. Pythagoras is rapidly approaching his fiftieth year and knows that he looks his age, but his friend could easily pass for ten – fifteen – years younger than that. Far from looking in his late forties, Jason still looks as though he is in the early half of his thirties (too young to have children who are all but grown); his hair is still dark with no sign of grey and there are no real lines on his face.

"Are you happy here?" Jason asks suddenly, trying to change the subject.

"Yes," Pythagoras answers without hesitation. "The young men who come to study with me are all very keen and I find myself content. It is not the same as my life in Atlantis was – when you shared the house with Hercules and I – when Icarus was alive… but I have found peace."

He watches the young men in the courtyard for a moment or two. When he speaks again his voice is very soft but very serious.

"Jason, what are you doing here?" he asks.

"Don't you want me here?" Jason retorts with a chuckle.

It is a familiar exchange (one that they have repeated many times over the years) but Pythagoras still rolls his eyes at Jason's evasiveness.

"Of course I do," he replies. "But with your daughter getting married soon, should you not be in Atlantis? I would have thought that there was much to do and much to prepare."

"Ariadne has the wedding under control," Jason answers. "There really wasn't anything I could do. She didn't need me there… Besides, can't I visit an old friend? I can leave if you want."

"Do not be ridiculous," Pythagoras says sharply. "You know that you are always welcome here whenever you want."

Jason smiles and crosses from the window to the table, pours some wine into the only cup there and takes a long sip. For some reason the sight jars Pythagoras but he can't explain why even to himself. There are droplets of deep red wine clinging to his friend's lower lip and just for a second it looks almost like blood. Then Jason licks it away and the moment (whatever it was) is gone.

Jason spots him staring and returns the gaze quizzically.

"What?" he asks.

Pythagoras flounders for an explanation for a moment (even though there really isn't one – he can't explain the cold, empty feeling that swept over him). Then the door slams open and a young man rushes in. A welcome interruption.

"Master Pythagoras," the boy says breathlessly. "I think I have found it!"

He is red in the face and panting hard; for a second, Pythagoras is afraid he will pass out.

"Slowly, Burrhus," he says gently, pushing the boy down onto a stool. "Take a few deep breaths and then tell me."

Burrhus rolls his eyes impatiently but does as he's told, knowing that Pythagoras will not allow him to talk until he is satisfied the boy has his breath back.

Finally the mathematician nods.

"There you are," he says. "Now you are less likely to end up on the floor, what was it you were so desperate to tell me?"

Burrhus looks up at him with shining eyes, his excitement written on his face. He reaches out to grab Pythagoras' wrist.

"You remember what I was working on, Master Pythagoras?" he says. "Well I think I have worked out the answer."

Pythagoras smiles encouragingly. Burrhus is not the brightest of his students but is far from unintelligent. The thing he lacks most is self-confidence, so Pythagoras is pleased to see him so excited and certain.

"That is good, Burrhus," he says kindly.

"Come and see what I have done," the boy says urgently, giving a little tug at Pythagoras' wrist. "I think you will be proud of me Master Pythagoras."

He is on his feet and tugging Pythagoras towards the door before the mathematician can respond. In his excitement to show his discovery to his teacher, he seems to have completely missed the fact that Pythagoras has company. Pythagoras hears Jason chuckle gently and looks up to see his friend grinning openly. Idly he wonders if this is what he was like as a young man whenever he came up with a new theory. Was he this enthusiastic? Yes, he thinks, he probably was (and still gets that way at times if truth be told). For now, though, he decides he doesn't really want his wrist pulled apart by an over-enthusiastic boy.

"Gently," he admonishes. "I am not a rope and you are not on a helkustinda team."

In the long-lost days of his adolescence, he remembers his brother, Arcas, taking part in helkustinda. He remembers Arcas' pride when he had taken his place in the team. The rules had been simple: two teams each taking the end of a rope and attempting to pull each other past a marker on the ground. It was supposed to be a good test of strength – a way of building up the strength needed for battle in full armour. Pythagoras had not been asked to take part (nor had he wanted to); he had always been seen as too skinny – too weak.

Burrhus looks instantly ashamed and drops his wrist as though he has been burned.

"Forgive me," he says. "I did not mean to hurt you."

"And you have not," Pythagoras reassures him.

"Will you not come to look?" Burrhus asks anxiously.

He hesitates for a moment, biting his lip nervously (it is a habit Pythagoras has been trying to break him of).

"I am not certain that all my calculations are correct," he confesses. "Will you check them for me?"

"Of course," Pythagoras replies softly.

He glances at Jason again (who is still being ignored by the boy). Jason nods gently and inclines his head towards the door – indicating that Pythagoras should go. Pythagoras half smiles in acknowledgement, glad that his friend understands, and leaves with his excited pupil.

* * *

The sun rises and the sun sets; the stars making their eternal way across the heavens, following their set course. Days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months and months turn into years. They are happy years (mostly); filled with fulfilment. There was, of course, a period of turmoil when the school in Croton had ended up being burned to the ground, but Pythagoras had simply moved to Metapontum and his new school has been established here for many years now.

He has grown old (older than he ever thought he would be) and feels his years a little more each day; it is in the aches that plague him when he rises in the morning; the breathlessness when he walks too far; the stick that he needs to lean on; the fact that he needs to rest after climbing the stairs. His sight is beginning to fail him and more often than not he has to ask one of his students to read to him when he finds the candlelight strains his eyes.

He feels the cold more than he used to and has the fire lit more often – even if it does make the room a little stuffy at times.

So it is that he rises early one morning (he still rises before the sun – the habit of a time long past) and prepares himself for the day, sitting down in the window seat as the sun rises with the duel purpose of eating his breakfast and using the golden rays of the sun to warm him. He is tired (he is always tired) and suspects that his time is growing short; there will not be many more days when he can enjoy the sunshine and the company of friends.

The young man who comes in with a letter (newly arrived on a ship from Atlantis) is one of Pythagoras' favourite pupils (even if he _is_ terribly young). Pythagoras bids the young man to read it to him (he is too comfortable to want to move right now). The news it contains is saddening but not entirely unexpected; Cassandra, Oracle of Poseidon (forever a young girl in Pythagoras' memory), has passed away peacefully and her successor named. Her health has been failing for some time now and Pythagoras has half feared the arrival of this letter for months.

"Forgive me Master Pythagoras," the young man, Duris, says, "but why would this be something you were interested in?" He gestures to the letter he's reading. "I understand that an oracle is an important person, but Atlantis is far from here and I cannot see that she could be connected to your work."

Pythagoras closes his eyes and sighs, reminding himself that this boy is still young and knows nothing of the mathematician's former life.

"I have not always lived in Metapontum," he says. "For the greater part of my life I lived in Atlantis… and I once called the Oracle a friend."

"A friend?" Duris asks incredulously. "How can this be? Forgive me… I do not wish to seem as though I do not believe you but the priests and priestesses who serve the Gods rarely have anything to do with ordinary men." He flushes as he realises what he has said. "Not that I mean that you are ordinary, Master Pythagoras," he says, flustered. "It is just…"

"Do not be concerned, Duris," Pythagoras replies. "I am not offended. Poseidon's Oracle and I travelled together for some time when I was young… that was how our friendship began."

Duris looks at him sceptically.

"Now I know you are teasing me," he declares. "All the world knows that the oracles do not leave the temples of the Gods they are dedicated to unless it is to perform specific rites."

"I am not teasing you," Pythagoras assures him. "Cassandra… Poseidon's Oracle was one of my companions aboard the _Argo_."

"The _Argo_?" Duris exclaims in surprise. "I have heard of that great ship and of the journey of the heroes who travelled on it… and you were among them?"

Much as he has great respect for Pythagoras, he has (until now at least) always thought of him as a gentle and harmless (albeit remarkably clever) old man.

"I was indeed," Pythagoras replies. "They were my friends. Jason – the leader of our voyage – had shared a house with Hercules and myself in happier times."

" _The_ Hercules?" Duris demands, sounding deeply impressed. "You shared a house with Hercules? Was he as strong and heroic as the stories say? I have heard that he was the son of Zeus himself!"

Pythagoras nearly laughs; Hercules would be delighted to hear the stories that are obviously being told about him.

"Stronger, I suspect," he answers, seeing no real harm in adding a little to the legend that clearly surrounds his old friend. "He once wrestled the Nemean lion, you know."

Duris looks almost awestruck and it's all Pythagoras can do to keep a straight face.

"He was also the smelliest man in all Atlantis and spent most of his time gambling in the tavern," he adds, feeling the need to add a grain of truth. "But he was my friend and I could not have asked for a better one. He was loyal and true… and would have given his life to save mine."

"You speak as though he is no longer in the land of the living," Duris begins hesitantly.

"He isn't," Pythagoras agrees, his tone becoming a little melancholy. "Hercules was not a young man when I met him. He was old enough to be my father. I suppose that ours was a strange friendship… but we were family and we loved one another."

"And what about the others on the _Argo_?" Duris asks, entranced. "What were they like?"

"Well there was Cassandra – the Oracle of Poseidon – she was just a young girl back then," Pythagoras reminisces. "She had only just been named as Oracle and she was very innocent. Her gift meant that she could never lie… which could be inconvenient when we were trying to conceal what we were doing… but she was a good friend and a good companion." He pauses to remember the girl he had known and the woman she had become; his sorrow at her recent death threatening briefly to overcome him.

"I'm sorry," Duris says. "If you do not wish to talk about this…"

"Nonsense," Pythagoras declares as brightly as he can manage. "It does me good to be able to talk of my friends… to remember them." He pauses for a moment, thinking. "Ariadne was Queen of Atlantis," he says. "She was as beautiful as the moon and stars… and as kind as she was lovely. You did not cross her though. She had a wicked aim with a bow… although even her skill paled into insignificance next to Atalanta. Atalanta was… well I don't actually know what she was to be honest… she was a servant of Artemis, that much is certain, and she had certain… well… magical abilities… she could heal wounds for instance. She could run as fast as any man and I have never seen her like as an archer."

He looks out of the window for a moment and then turns back to his young companion. Duris has come over to sit at his feet to listen to his reminiscences.

"Then there was Icarus." He pauses again, swallowing hard (it is still painful to remember what happened to Icarus even after all these years). "Icarus and I were… intimate."

"You were close friends?"

"No," Pythagoras replies calmly. "We were lovers." He looks at the stunned expression on Duris' face and cannot help laughing. "I have shocked you," he says.

"No!" Duris exclaims rapidly. "No… I was just… not expecting you to say that, that is all." He looks Pythagoras in the face. "What happened?" he asks.

"I don't understand," Pythagoras says.

"You said that you and this Icarus _were_ lovers… which means that you are not now… so I wondered… forgive me, I am being rude. Asking questions that I should not; being nosy. My mother is always telling me off for that."

"Never be ashamed of having an inquiring mind," Pythagoras states firmly. "As for Icarus… well… after our voyage on the _Argo_ we spent several very happy years together. Then he was lost at sea, testing an invention of his father's… and I never fully forgave Daedalus for that. I still find it painful to talk about Icarus even after all these years. That is not your doing though… it is simply the way things are."

He pauses again, lost in memories – both good and bad.

"The journey on the _Argo_ were the most terrifying, dreadful and wonderful days that I ever spent… and my companions were the best friends a man could ever hope for," he says. "They were the best and worst of times… and I would not exchange a moment of it."

Duris nods thoughtfully.

"A few minutes ago, you mentioned the leader of your journey… Jason," he murmurs. "I have heard stories of him… What was he like?"

Pythagoras huffs a laugh (it's more of a wheeze than he would like but he supposes that that is only to be expected really).

"When I first met Jason, I do not think anyone could have predicted what he would become," he says. "He was just another ordinary young man; a boy of no real consequence to anyone. He burst into our lives so unexpectedly… and I never did find out where he came from. He was sunny natured and always ready to share a joke or a smile. We often joined forces to tease Hercules. Later on, when we had learned that he was actually the true heir to the throne and all the cares and worries pressed upon him, he became very solemn; very serious… but at first he was fun."

"And was he as great a warrior as the stories say?" Duris asks, hanging on Pythagoras' every word.

"I have never known a better man with a sword," Pythagoras says. "Oh, not at first… at first he couldn't fight with it at all… but once he learned to wield it properly, he was brilliant… although, I suppose it was only natural, given that Jason was touched by the Gods at birth. When I first met him, no man that I had ever met could run faster – he ran like the wind itself – and he could flip and twist better than any acrobat I have ever seen. He was different; special." He smiles softly. "From the start, I rapidly became aware that he was without doubt the stubbornest person I had ever known and when he got an idea in his head – when he thought that what he was doing was right – there was no shaking him from it. He could be hot-tempered, pig headed and wilful… but he was, without doubt, one of the kindest and noblest men you could ever meet. He married Ariadne before we ever travelled on the _Argo_ and when we got back to Atlantis, he was named King. Then the children were born. Three of them. Athene was first and then the twins came along four years later. They were good times. We were as close as brothers once."

Duris fiddles with the hem of his tunic, pulling at a loose thread he finds there. Finally, he looks up at Pythagoras.

"If you were as close as brothers, why has he never visited you?" he asks. "If he had, one of the others would have mentioned it even if it was before my time here. I mean… the stories of the _Argo_ are told often enough that if one of the Argonauts had come here it would have been talked about."

"I was an Argonaut in a way," Pythagoras points out. He sighs and closes his eyes briefly. "There was another journey," he says. "Years after _Argo_. It did not end well."

"What happened?" Duris demands.

Pythagoras doesn't speak for a long minute – so long, in fact, that his young companion doesn't think he's going to respond and starts to ready his apologies in case he has offended him.

"There was another kingdom who had long been antagonistic towards Atlantis," Pythagoras says at length. "They sent emissaries indicating that they wished to draw up a peace treaty. The negotiations were long but finally they were concluded, and it was decided that the treaty would be signed at a point along the border between the kingdoms. Ariadne could not go herself. The twins were only young and Jason decided it would be too dangerous for both him and Ariadne to go. He didn't want to risk it if anything went wrong. They had a blazing row about it actually. Anyway, since the negotiations were secret and needed to be kept so until the treaty had been signed, it was decided that only a small group of us would go; that we would not take a large contingent of guards. Jason did not like being surrounded by guards at the best of times; did not like fuss and it was not as if he needed protecting most of the time. He could see off most threats all on his own." He pauses for a moment and swallows hard. "We got there and, for once, everything went according to plan. Jason signed the treaty and we set off for home again in high spirits. We were just three days from Atlantis and we set up camp for the night. We were in an area that was supposed to be safe; there hadn't been bandits there for years. Only, there _were_ bandits. They were drawn to our camp fire and attacked from out of the dark. The first we knew of them was when an arrow hit Jason high in the chest. He would normally have been protected by his breastplate but he had loosened the ties on one side to adjust his tunic underneath. The bandits… well let's just say that between Hercules and the two guards that were with us, they did not live very long. The wound itself looked ghastly but I still believed it to be treatable. I removed the arrow and stemmed the bleeding… packed the wound as best I could… but we decided – Jason too – that it would be best to make for home; that I could treat him better in Atlantis. There was only so much that I could do for him out in the middle of nowhere."

Pythagoras swallows hard again and looks out of the window, lost in the past. A gentle touch on his hand startles him back to reality and he looks down to see Duris offering him a cup of water. It seems that the boy had stood up and slipped across the room to fetch it for him without him even noticing. He nods his thanks and attempts to smile at the lad before taking a long sip.

"I had tended to all their wounds so many times before," Pythagoras says quietly. "I had always been very interested in anatomy and somewhere along the way I had become the healer for our group." He pauses and half smiles to himself. "It was generally Jason that I was patching up… he seemed to attract injuries, but he always healed from them well and quickly… so I had no reason to believe that this time would be any different."

"But it was?" Duris asks.

"Yes," Pythagoras replies. "None of us got much sleep that night and we set out again before dawn. At first everything seemed fine. Our pace was slower than usual but that was only to be expected… I did not feel that it was prudent to move the horses at anything more than a walk; I did not want to risk reopening the wound and causing greater bleeding by riding too fast and jostling it. Still, he seemed to be tolerating the journey well. Oh, I knew he had to be in pain – and probably a great deal of it – but I think they must have had Jason in mind when they came up with the word stoic. He would cry out when any injury first happened and whimper softly as I treated him – I used to think that sound was worse than if he had been screaming – but afterwards he would sort of retreat into himself; would suffer in silence so as not be a bother. This time was no different. He even attempted to joke with Hercules and Icarus, but I could tell it was an effort. As the day went on, Jason slumped more in the saddle and grew quieter as he grew more tired. He was paler than I liked too but even then I still believed that it was just a normal injury that he would recover from quickly." He takes another sip of the water. "Only it was not. You see I did not know that the arrow had touched his heart and pierced his lung. He was bleeding inside and I did not realise… and I should have! I should have been more aware. I could not have changed what happened in the end… but I should still have known!"

He swallows convulsively and stares out of the window for a long moment. Something is moving out on the hillside but it is too far away for him to make out what it is anymore. Some days he curses his failing eyesight; one of the consequences of getting old he supposes.

"We set up camp for the night," he says. "We had supper when we stopped – although I do not believe any of us had much of an appetite… even Hercules – and if you had known him you would know just how unusual that really was. I was tired and both Hercules and Icarus encouraged me to rest. Hercules decided that he and the two guards were going to check the area to make sure there were no more bandits anywhere nearby; nothing that could attack us in the night. He persuaded Icarus to go and fetch more firewood, so it was just Jason and I left in camp." He pauses and swallows convulsively again. "We had laid out our blankets near the fire. He looked so tired… so world weary… and I… I think I knew that something was not right – although I am not sure that I could have explained why. There was something in his expression... I asked Jason to promise that he would not leave us. I told him that I needed him to stay… And I knew – I knew that that was a promise that he could not make; that he might not be able to keep – yet I still asked it of him. When he told me that he would stay if he could, I told him that that was not good enough… and so he gave in and told me what I wanted to hear. He was tired and I told him to sleep. I must have fallen asleep myself because the next thing I remember was Hercules shaking me awake, shouting at me to _do something_. Jason was coughing, curled in on himself… and as soon as I saw the blood on his lips I knew… I knew he must be bleeding inside – that he had been bleeding inside all day – that the arrow must have touched his heart… and I knew there was nothing I could do to fix it." He pauses and takes a long sip of the water Duris brought for him. "It was peaceful in the end," he admits. "Hercules was desolate and raging but even _he_ knew there was nothing that could be done. The hardest part was returning to Atlantis and telling Ariadne that her husband was not going to be returning home."

Duris looks up at him with large, sad eyes.

"I am sorry, Master Pythagoras," he says. "I did not mean to stir up bad memories or to make you sad."

Pythagoras is surprised to realise that his cheeks are wet (had no idea that he had started crying at some point). He wipes his eyes almost impatiently and rests one thin hand on the boy's head.

"Gracious child, you have not made me sad," he says with false brightness. "I simply have some dust in my eye."

Duris looks at him sceptically, and for a moment Pythagoras is reminded of a conversation he once had with Hercules by a campfire when the burly wrestler had claimed not to be crying (and it seems like a lifetime ago now).

"Do not worry," the elderly mathematician attempts to reassure his young companion, "nothing you have done has or could upset me. It was more than forty years ago now; a lifetime by anyone's standards."

He moves his hand from the curly head by his knee to pat the boy's shoulder.

"Now," he says. "I have spent enough time dwelling on the past. Tell me, what are you working on at the moment?"

"I have been following your theory of ratios in tuning musical instruments," Duris answers promptly. "I am testing the theory to provide empirical proofs."

He goes into a lengthy explanation of his work, which Pythagoras listens to patiently, making the right encouraging noises at the right times. Finally, having suggested several new lines of study for Duris, he sends the young man off to carry on with his studies alone.

He is gripped by the sudden desire to see the view from the hill (although it is a year or two now since he made the trek up there), so he slowly pushes himself to his feet (and, Gods, what he would give to go a day without feeling so stiff and tired) and reaches for his stick.

The path to the hill seems longer than he remembers and the climb steeper. Halfway there a sharp pain starts to grow in his chest – nothing like his usual aches and pains. Pythagoras pauses, breathing hard before carrying on, determined to get to the top.

The hilltop opens out into a sunlit olive grove. Pythagoras makes his way over to the nearest tree and sits down slowly and painfully, still gasping for breath. Hercules would have loved it here, he decides. His old friend was always complaining that the misadventures the three of them embarked on all too often ended up in a dark cave or an overgrown forest; places of dark magic and mystery. Pythagoras could remember the burly wrestler plaintively demanding to know why they couldn't end up in a sunlit olive grove for once.

A wave of pain catches him again (it feels almost like his chest is being crushed) and he hunches in on himself, vaguely aware of someone sitting down beside him as he does. It is no real surprise when a familiar hand begins to rub up and down his spine comfortingly.

"Why are you here?" he manages to gasp out.

"You need me," Jason replies gently. "Even after all these years."

"Yes," Pythagoras agrees. "Gods help me, I do."

He turns his head to look at his friend sharply. Jason looks as solid and real as he does himself (if a lot younger, he acknowledges with a frown).

"All these years," he says. "Have you ever really been here? Are you a spirit or just a figment of my imagination?"

Jason shrugs.

"Does it really matter?" he asks.

Pythagoras snorts and looks away.

"I suppose not," he says, "but I would like to know."

The pain in his chest has eased and he is finally managing to catch his breath.

"I made you a promise," Jason replies with a soft half-smile. "I promised that I wouldn't leave you."

"I meant you to stay with us physically, not like this," Pythagoras retorts sharply.

"I know," Jason says. "But that wasn't… I couldn't…"

Pythagoras finds himself almost in tears once more.

"I am sorry," he all but whispers. "I should not have made you promise that. I knew it was a promise that you would not be able to keep."

"It's alright," Jason answers, looking off into the distance. "I didn't want to leave."

"I think you must be a figment of my imagination," Pythagoras replies at length. "I have never heard of a spirit that returns to comfort and speak with someone… especially over so many years."

Jason looks amused.

"When have I _ever_ followed the rules?" he points out.

He reaches out and pinches Pythagoras gently.

"Does that feel imaginary?" he adds.

"Ow!" Pythagoras protests (although it has to be said that the pinch was feather light and didn't really hurt), slapping his friend on the arm.

Jason feels as solid and real as he looks.

"I suppose that if anyone were to be able to do this, it would be you," Pythagoras acknowledges. "You never did know how to give in."

He looks away, gazing at the view from the hilltop (it _is_ the reason that he struggled to get up here after all). From here he can see the sea; the bright morning sun dancing across the rippling waves. It occurs to him that in all his long life, he has never lived anywhere that wasn't near the sea.

"The thing I do not understand," he says at length, "is that, if I accept that you are not a figment of my imagination, why you are the only one who ever came back to me? Not that I have not enjoyed our conversations over the years, but I was friends with Hercules for longer and Icarus was the love of my life… why did neither one of them ever return?"

Jason sighs.

"I can't really say," he admits. "Maybe it's because I'm the one that promised you I wouldn't leave. Icarus is waiting for you though… they all are."

"I would have thought that once Ariadne… well, I would have thought that you would have wanted to be with her so much that you would not have time for me anymore," Pythagoras says mildly.

There isn't even the hint of accusation in his voice; he knows how much Jason loves his wife after all.

Jason smiles softly.

"We've waited this long to be together," he points out, "I hardly think a little while longer matters in the grand scheme of things."

"I miss her," Pythagoras confesses. "Now that Cassandra is gone too, I am the last of us; the last one who remembers; the last one who can tell the true story of what happened… some of the stories I hear about _Argo_ are rather fantastical."

Jason grins.

"Really?" he says.

"Yes," Pythagoras answers. "There is a rumour, for instance, that Hercules was a demi-god."

Jason gives a surprised and incredulous laugh.

"Seriously?" he asks.

"Seriously," Pythagoras replies with a smile. "He would have loved it. All he ever wanted to be was famous; a hero worthy of legends."

They lapse into friendly silence for a moment.

"Part of me wishes Ariadne had remarried," Jason observes at length. "I would have liked her to have been happier than she was."

He looks at Pythagoras and, although he is smiling, his eyes are slightly sad.

"I used to watch her… even if she wasn't able to see me. When she was alone, she always looked a little sad."

"I don't think she ever stopped missing you," Pythagoras says softly.

"Which is why I would have liked her to have found someone who could have made her happy," Jason replies. "It hardly seems fair somehow that after everything that we went through, Ariadne didn't get to be happy."

"She _was_ happy," Pythagoras murmurs, "and life has never been all that fair. Besides… I think one epic love story was enough to last her a lifetime."

Jason snorts.

"Epic love story?" he says wryly. "Are you getting poetic in your old age?"

Pythagoras raises an eyebrow.

"Well what else would you call it?" he asks. His voice is wheezier than ever, and he can't seem to catch his breath properly. "The heir to the throne and a peasant fall in love. They risk everything for each other – even their lives. They go through many hardships both before and after the princess becomes queen. She risks her life and her throne to become betrothed to him and then to save him. He risks his life to save her in return. They marry while they are on the run and it turns out that he is not the peasant everyone believed; he is the _true_ heir to the throne… if that is not the stuff of legends then I do not know what is!"

"Well when you put it like that, it does rather sound like a fairy story doesn't it?" Jason replies.

Pythagoras frowns in confusion. In spite of the years they have known one another, Jason can still disconcert him by using strange words and phrases.

"What is a fairy story?" he asks.

"A story for children," Jason answers. "A bedtime story."

"Ah," Pythagoras responds.

Jason looks speculatively at the old mathematician.

"Do you still believe that we can be reborn after we die?" he asks.

"In the transmigration of the soul?" Pythagoras replies. "Yes… more than ever. I simply cannot believe that there is no point to our lives. For us to be reborn into new lives makes far more sense to me than the traditional view of the underworld."

"Fair enough," Jason says.

"I believe… I hope… that we meet those we love again in our next lives," Pythagoras continues. "I hope to see Icarus once more – to have the life together that we were denied in this one – and not just as cold spirits in Hades."

Jason smiles softly.

Pythagoras frowns, eyes narrowing.

"You must know what happens," he says. "After all you are…"

He breaks off. In spite of the many conversations he has had with Jason (or with what he supposes to be Jason's spirit) over the years, they have never directly discussed what happened before.

"You _can_ say it," Jason replies mildly. "I won't instantly vanish if you do."

Pythagoras shoots him a look that can only be described as exasperated.

"I know that," he snaps. "I am a man of reason after all." He sighs. "It is just that… well… I do not really think of you as being…"

"Dead?" Jason offers. He huffs a humourless laugh. "Trust me, it's not something that I'm particularly happy about… but it did happen."

"I know," Pythagoras admits. "I have always known. I did not wish to acknowledge it… but I always knew the truth."

Jason laughs and nudges his old friend with his shoulder.

"Do you remember the first time I came to see you after," he says. "I'm not sure which one of us was more shocked… I didn't expect you to be able to see me – no-one else could."

"I thought I was going mad," Pythagoras confesses. "And I certainly think that Hercules believed I was… I tried to tell him, you know. He… well… let us just say that it is perhaps for the best that he had rather too much to drink that evening and could not remember the precise details of our conversation… otherwise I fear that he might have locked me up for my own good."

"You still spoke to me though," Jason points out. "After the first couple of times, it was just like it always was."

"Yes," Pythagoras says. "I had missed you more than I like to think… and even if I did not know how it was possible that you could be there… I still relished our conversations."

"Nothing lasts forever though."

"No," Pythagoras agrees. "I suppose it does not."

"I'm going to miss this," Jason says looking at the view.

Pythagoras frowns. The pain in his chest is back, even worse than it was before.

"Miss what?" he manages to gasp out.

"Greece," Jason replies. "The sunshine; the heat. Where I grew up was always colder than this."

"I will not see you again, will I?" Pythagoras replies sadly.

He cannot help whimpering as the pain reaches agonising levels, blackness encroaching on the edges of his vision; dark spots dancing in front of his eyes as the world closes in. He feels Jason easing him down until he is lying, hand stroking his hair gently but firmly.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Jason says softly. "I'm pretty sure we'll see each other again. Don't worry about it right at this moment. Rest now… just rest."

It is growing harder for Pythagoras to breathe and his sight is all but gone, but he knows his friend is still there with him (as he has always been). He is so very tired but, although there is still pain, he feels peace creeping over him.

"I'll see you in our next lives," he hears Jason murmur. "I can't wait to see what we'll both do then."


End file.
